As Tony knows only too well, "matters of protocol" is Fury code for "super-tedious meeting". Frank seems to also be aware of this, as immediately upon hearing the phrase he digs his sparkly heels in and flat-out refuses to go anywhere or have any kind of discussions unless he gets his performance rider. And as far as Tony can see, Fury is getting off easy, because far from a Mariah-style list, Frank only asks for the continued presence of Steve (within handy groping distance), some canape size vodka slushies in paper cone cups, and a printed copy of the public schematics for Tony's Iron Man suit.

Once again, Tony finds himself slightly unnerved by Frank's perspicacity. Because he hasn't asked for anything that Fury could easily refuse to give. No state secrets. Nothing that couldn't be gained by using the internet for a few minutes, or, in Steve's case, slinging an obscene amount of money into the bidding pot at a charity auction to benefit homeless orphans.

So of course Fury agrees, with very poor grace - in fact the man looks like he's just bitten into a lemon soaked in horse piss, to use a phrase coined by one of Tony's more disreputable childhood friends. Frank very obviously couldn't care less about how he gets his stuff or who he pisses off. And they swan off into one of the nicer, more diplomatic interrogation rooms (soft chairs, deep pile rugs and no actual chains or torture devices visible, though hey, who's to say Frank wouldn't have preferred those?) for a lovely chat over their multicoloured vodka slushies. Tony is forbidden from accompanying them. By men with guns who are apparently the good guys. As far as he's concerned that's just plain rude, so to pay Fury back he decides to not only hack the room's cameras - he was going to do that anyway - but also to livestream the feed back to the tower, where he's pretty sure Clint and Natasha and Bruce will be glad to share their professional second opinions on it. Or at very least they can join in with Tony's bitching and moaning and share some juicy peanut gallery commentary.

Once he's all set up, the suit is folded back neatly into its case, and JARVIS has assured him that everything is being recorded and relayed, Tony sits back and, with half an eye on the camera feed, starts to review the Denton Affair files. Because know your eneny and all that, and also because Tony is a sucker for a good tabloid scandal as long as it doesn't actively involve him.

It's pretty tame stuff, actually. Maybe back in the seventies this was very hot R-rated material, but in the enlightened noughties, Tony thinks he's seen weirder stuff on the tattoo-and-bar strip after three a.m. He flicks through the pictures.

So Frank turns up on Earth in his glossy spaceship that looks like a flying gothic mansion with a sparkledome on top, with his entourage, spends his time partying and carrying out some kind of massively underspecified intelligence-gathering mission - S.H.I.E.L.D's files are incredibly vague as to what this "mission" might be, other than alluding to things like "unethical" and "covert". Tony finds it hard to believe that anything Frank could ever do could be described as covert, but there you go. Then he seems to have some kind of fruitloop alien breakdown and rampages straight from relatively harmless group sex parties into kidnaping, murder and other charming types of full-on crazy.

All-round super guy, really.

There's not a lot about his species, though. Evidently S.H.I.E.L.D don't know as much as they'd like to think they do. Well, there's a shocker. The Transylvanians certainly look human enough, all of them (there's a skinny guy in a butler outfit and a hot red-head done up like the Bride of Frankenstein's maid) if a little on the gothy, alternative side. There are even a few pictures of the three of them dressed conservatively, in old-fashioned puritan gear, with Frank himself almost unrecognisable as a priest, of all things. It's a wedding party. Someone has circled the aliens in red pen, like you wouldn't be able to find them otherwise. Where's Frankie, Tony thinks, and wonders whether he could draw a little bobble hat on the picture.

Then he gets to the files on a couple called Brad and Janet, who could only look more wholesome and normal were they to appear in the feature section of Better Homes and Gardens. In the 1950's. They look like the kind of people who would have lived next door to Steve, with a white picket fence and a dog.

"Yes," says Loki's voice from behind him. "Not who you'd expect, are they?"

"I dunno," said Tony, scratching his beard. "I get the impression your buddy there likes to play games. Playing with people who are already up for the game is no fun. Playing with people who don't know they're playing and have no idea of the rules -"

"I know," says Loki, and he's smirking, the bastard. "That's my kind of game. And Frank's too. That's why I know there's something wrong. That and -"

"What?"

"You won't like it."

"Oh, now you have to tell me."

"He smells different."

"He smells different? What does he usually smell of? Cake? Old Spice? The blood of his enemies?"

"I told you you wouldn't like it," says Loki, starting to sound bored in a studied fashion that Tony just knows means he's feeling stressed. "Again I refer you to your science. His pheromones. When he is well, they are stable. When he is...unwell...they fluctuate. In this fashion."

"Huh. So he's not always the unstoppable sex machine. Well, that's kinda good to know."

"Oh," says Loki, and there's perhaps a twinge of sadness in his voice, "no, sometimes he's much, much worse."

There's a sharp sound from the feed, and they both turn their attention back to the screen. Fury has pushed back his chair with a scrape and is standing. Frank is lounging in his chair, one arm around Steve, hand in his hair, the other hand cradling a green vodka slushie. And he has a giant shit-eating grin on his face, all those big white teeth bared in a feral snarl.

"Uh-oh," says Tony. "That looks...not good."

His comm crackles.

"Tony," says Natasha, "if he starts a fight and you take him down, get me his shoes."

"Seriously? That's where you went with this? No "Tony, if you need help, I'll be right there and kick his ass with my scary Soviet mojo" but "get me shoes"? Tasha, if you're not careful, I'll start thinking you're a real girl."

"Steel reinforced heels, Stark. Real girls can use them to kick your ass."